In the night, over these ancient lands, you can catch a glimp In the night, over these ancient lands, you can catch a glimpse of a willow, a shadow that leans on a cart_ she is Death. She enchantedly listens to the last breaths carried by the wind, and she reflects herself in her sand-glass on which cold dew will slip towards dusk, the transposition of the tears of those who will bury their loved ones tomorrow. She now tells these stories, the sad doom of the suicide committer who is damned for divine sin to wander as a spectre, and not to be able to be buried in Holy land, the gift of he who can attend his own burial, the black aura of lost and abandoned places where foul rites were consumed, arcane and esoteric initiations_ visions from After Death_ the dark barking of dogs and the screams of the Wild Hunt, the tragedy of the plague and its processions towards humble lonely temples in the fields_ Here there is no light, only Death and Silence.
